


32:  Playing the Field

by light_source



Series: High Heat [32]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim thinks back, remembering his first loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	32:  Playing the Field

In the dark entryway of the apartment he’s rented for spring training, Tim gropes for the light-switch and comes up empty. Suddenly something clutches at the toe of his shoe and sends him sprawling into the living room, smacking him up against the back of the couch.

That thing he tripped over, soft and heavy as a dead body, turns out to be his gym bag. Right. He’d dropped it just inside the entryway before going up to Zito’s.

He flips himself easily over onto the bed of the sofa. It doesn't count as a fall if you planned it, he reminds himself, so call it before you hit the ground.  He’s relieved that his body, the only thing he entirely trusts, is still keeping him whole.

As his heart settles down, he thinks back to what he’d remembered coming down the hill from Zito’s, the driveway gate bloody in his taillights.

//

The first girl he’d liked had been Jen Lefferts in eighth grade, Jen with hair blonde on top from being out in the summer sun and a little darker underneath, like her eyebrows. Jen who could beat anyone except him at tetherball. In social-studies homeroom Tim’d sent Jen a note asking her to co-rec night on Friday, with boxes for ‘yes’ or ‘no. ‘

The note changed hands across the third row, from Sammer to Ryan and Chip and then over to Evangeline, who’d rolled her black-rimmed Goth eyes.

Then for a long time, the note’d just sat there on Jen’s desk, still folded, everyone watching.

When Ms. Heilman-Wright turned to write on the board, Jen curled her thumb and middle finger together and flicked Tim’s unopened note onto the floor. Like she was playing marbles.

Later, between classes, he’d stopped at her locker and blurted out her name, his voice cracking treble.

She’d been flanked by her posse. All taller than him, these girls with their smeary Courtney Love eyes and skinny sweaters with sleeves halfway down their hands. They looked him up and down as though he were an outfit they wouldn’t be seen dead in.

So when Ben Sebast came dragging ass around the corner with Cowan and Haseley, Tim had just pretended he’d said ‘Ben’ instead of 'Jen.'  Ben’s hoodie was hanging off his arm and his bottom lip was fat and bloody - probably got it from Freddy Espinosa again, out by the tennis courts. Tim’d faded back into his own posse, on their way to seventh-period P.E. and then practice, seething with outrage and bootless threats of revenge against Freddy.

Let the girls stand there looking stupid for a change.

//

One day in the kitchen, when his mom had been trying to explain sex without actually saying the words, she’d told him and his brother that ‘high school is a time when you should play the field.’

The amazing thing about his mother was how she was almost always right, in spite of being a mom and therefore clueless. And she was right about this: the playing field, whether it was the greasy-wet grass of the gridiron or the sandy muck of the infield, was where Tim came to life. Even when it wasn’t technically a field at all but the hoops court.

The thing about sports, Tim knew, was that even the unwritten rules could be figured out if you kept your eyes open and your mouth shut.

Sean had scoffed. ‘Playing the field’ didn’t mean sports, he'd said; it was just an expression for dating a lot of different girls.

But Tim knew better than to ask his mom about it.  She’d already dragged them through _when a man and a woman love each other very much_ three times, four if you count that time in the car. Asking was sure to bring another version of the lecture back down on their heads, excruciating in so many ways, not the least because he and Sean had already heard all the dirtier, more interesting versions from their friends. If his mom knew what they knew, he’d figured, she’d probably walk out and never come back.

//

Tim had been five feet nothing since sixth grade, and by the time high school rolled around, even the girls were taller than he was, plus they could wear heels. It was so wrong.

On the field, though, no one cared. His arm, his speed, and his moves entitled him to play quarterback in football, point guard in basketball, and starting pitcher in baseball; on the field he was equal. Fucking Edward Scissorhands could've quarterbacked for the Liberty Patriots, Tim reflects, as long as he’d been able to scramble and throw long. And Tim’s nickname, ‘Scum,’ suggested that he’d managed to command a kind of grudging respect. It meant he was good enough to be dirty, and for Tim dirty was almost as good as dangerous.

Eventually, though, Tim’ s talent had raised the hackles of Les Haywood, six-four and two-forty-five but too stupid even as a senior to play anything but nose tackle. Haywood’d started waiting for Lincecum by the schoolbus service road, with three or four other guys from the line whose cheekbones were already blunted from too many rough takedowns. They’d hang around until dusk, when everybody’d gone home for the day and the only people around were the janitors smoking in the break room. Then they’d ambush Tim, hauling on him by halves with the aim of dislocating his arm or at least wrenching his shoulder.

The worst - his gut twinges just thinking about it - was the time Les and two of his friends’d held him down, grinding his head into the pavement, telling him how they were gonna break his fingers one at a time. They’d backed off only when Mr. Eisenberg, the AP chemistry teacher, had emerged suddenly from the pavilion door. At first Tim couldn’t see what was happening, but as soon as he’d felt the weight lifting off his chest as the guys swerved up and away from him, he’d heard Mr. Eisenberg shouting _what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_

Les and them had scattered into the dark like rats, leaving Tim on the ground spitting blood and saliva and knuckling his right eye where it was already swelling up. Mr. Eisenberg had just stood there with his briefcase in one hand and his KCTS tote bag in the other, his face contorted, staring at Tim like he’d been the one who'd started it.

At least he hadn’t offered Tim a hand up.

Tim had been so amazed to hear _fuck_ coming out of a teacher’s mouth that he’d been speechless. Swabbing his nose and cheek with his sleeve, he’d just scrambled to his feet, grabbing his backpack from where he’d dropped it against the bent-pipe base of the bleachers, and gone home.

There was an upside to all this, if you’re crazy enough to think that way. In sophomore year he’d knocked almost two seconds off his hundred-meter dash time, running from those guys. He’d learned to combine a running start with halfback-style 180s and feints and hurdle splits because those make you slippery. It was like football - keep your chin down and your elbows tucked.

For the worst days - like the afternoon Les got cut from varsity after he got arrested for DUI - Tim had worked out an alternate route home from school involving an eight-foot chain-link fence. After he’d taught himself to vault the fence in a flip worthy of David Hasselhoff, he loved how amazing it felt, like looping the loop on the swings in elementary school.

That day he’d finally had to use it, it was only when he’d finally lost the slow and clumsy Les back at the creekbed, screaming threats, that he’d looked down at his hands, cut raw and bloody by the burred aluminum links.

//

When people play that game _what super power would you most like to have?_ , Tim never says _invisibility_ because he’s been there already and has no desire to go back. He’s pretty sure no one would choose it if they’d ever experienced it. Like being a ghost at your own funeral, he thinks, and wanting to grab people by their shoulders and shout _look at me I’m still here._ The worst invisibility had been with girls; they’d looked around him and over him and beyond him and everywhere but at him.  Except when they did, and then they giggled and looked crosswise at their friends. Which was worse.

Junior year’d been magic, though, like what happened to Alice in Wonderland when she found the cake with _eat me_ written on it in currants. Tim had shot up eight inches, growing so fast that his dad had joked he could hear Tim’s clothes rustling as his bones stretched.

Nothing had changed on the inside - he was the same Tim - but at school it was like he was finally _there_.

One evening in May, when was using nail scissors to snip the sewn-on size tags off two pairs of 30/34 Levi’s, Chris Ebner had called with major news: both Amanda and Allison had said yes as long as they all went, all four of them, all together. And Chris had the Explorer, his dad’d _said;_ the only thing was they had to be back by midnight.

//

That first time with Allison was a little like starting swimming lessons when he was eight. His mom had dropped him off, and he was sitting by himself with his towel behind the yellow  _W A L K_   line of the pool deck at Henry Moses. He was waiting, waiting for the guy in the red shorts to blow the whistle like Sean said, but it never happened, and after that nothing turned out the way it was supposed to.

//

He’s amazed at how casually Allison takes the joint between her thumb and finger and sucks down a long hit, not coughing, not even clearing her throat. Then, her voice tight around the lungful of smoke, she giggles a little and hands the jay to Chris, smiling without opening her lips.

It’s quiet out here by the lake, by this rocky outcropping he and Chris have been coming to since they were small. Their families used to picnic here together, the grownups lounging around the picnic table, drinking Olys and waving the hornets off the macaroni salad while the kids collected tadpoles in mayonnaise jars.

Allison’s got long shiny straight hair, kind of striped, Tim thinks, although he’s sure that’s not how you’re supposed to describe it. She’s wearing a sweater made out of some kind of filmy stuff that lets pieces of her skin show through, boots that bag around her ankles, and a scarf that looks like some wild animal’s wet tail. She’s crunching on an Altoid and then tipping her head back to tincture her eyes with Visine from her purse - ‘dope eyes,’ she says disparagingly - as the two of them settle back in the hollow of the big rock looking out at the lake.

When Chris and Amanda saunter off towards the parking area in pursuit of the bathrooms, it’s Allison who finally turns to him, her face bright and expectant in the moonlight. She tips her head a little so the edge of her cheekbone grabs the light, and then she slides the fingers of one hand around his neck, behind his ear.

When their mouths meet it feels formal, ceremonial; her lips are dry and cool and only hint at what has to be beyond them, the empty mystery of her mouth. It’s almost the way it feels to kiss someone in your family, just closer, thinks Tim, till _oh wait, it isn’t._ She’s taken his upper lip between hers and now both of their mouths are open, and he feels the tip of her tongue on the corner of his, the taste of Altoids and dope smoke.

He hadn’t expected her to be so close - her hair’s amazing, as slippery as the satin edging on a blanket, and her skin is warm and pink-smelling, like baby powder. Her hands are bonier and weirdly more like claws than he’d expected, her charm bracelet winking next to his eye as she forks her fingers through his hair, pulling him towards her. Then he hears a sound in her throat, a sound that takes him by surprise because he’s still all _what the fuck is this_ waiting for the wave that’s supposed to overtake him. When she takes his hand, big in her small one, and cups it around her breast, it’s so weird for something to be there, and that bony thing around the bottom, he can’t figure.

So he does what he knows works: he mirrors her moves, staying with her as she twists against him, her rainbow-painted nails alarming his bare skin, memorizing what someday he hopes he’ll know by heart.

//

Later, as they gun back through the empty streets of Renton, chasing curfew, Tim wonders how the evening’s gone. Allison and Amanda are in the back seat, talking behind their hands and curtains of hair, their voices blotted out by the angry noise of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ on the radio.

Chris’s face is split by a cocky grin as he speeds through the night-time blinking yellows, his splayed fingers slapping time on the center console.

 _This is it,_ thinks Tim.

//

He should probably tell Brandon about it, Brandon who’s known him the longest. But the new Madden NFL’s too complicated to talk during, and Madden’s all the two of them have time for these days. The new graphics are much better - it’s freaky good, Tim agrees, the guys have shadows and everything and you can practically see their jerseys rippling. Even the tails on the coin toss look so much like real life that, when they play, Tim feels his legs twitching, wanting to move.

Brandon and Tim have been playing Madden since elementary school, but now that they’re in high school the gaming window has shrunk. Tim’s after-school hours are jammed with practices and weight-training and Brandon’s been caddying afternoons at Meridian Valley to pay for his lessons and greens fees. 

_But still._  The rainy afternoon Brandon texts him U MADN? Tim doesn't even bother to text back; he's already there. At Brandon’s, four houses down from the Lincecums’, the PlayStation’s in the basement so they can make as much noise as they want, and Sean isn’t there to butt in.

Tim and Brandon still don’t really get what’s involved in franchise mode - Sean does - but it’s OK; Madden’s plenty complicated already. Tim’s figured out how to maximize the running game, playing Denver against Brandon’s Green Bay, and he’s gotten pretty good at deflecting the up-the-middle passes that Brandon doesn’t seem to realize aren’t working.

When one of Tim's defensive backs picks off a particularly lame Green Bay screen pass and runs it all the way back to the Packers' twenty-three, Brandon straight-arms Tim and Tim shoves back harder and then Tim reaches over and slaps the gamepad right out of Brandon’s hands.

As it clatters to the floor Brandon seizes Tim by the shoulders, flips him over on his back and pins him to the couch, half-on, half-off, squirming.

In the background, Pat Summerall’s voice calling the turnover and the bark of Madden’s voice praising the Denver defense are probably the thing that pushes Brandon over the edge.

\- Eat shit and die, Brandon, howls Tim, - you heard the man. That was fucking brilliant. Fucking _inspired._

\- Motherfucker! Brandon screams, - you little motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you.

The fact that Tim’s laughing just makes Brandon more furious, and he slams Tim’s shoulders a second time back against the cushions, exploding the small bag of Fritos they’d left there, salty dust puffing up around Tim’s shoulders as the chips crackle out of the bag and onto the floor.

Brandon’s foot slaps his Pepsi over onto the carpet, where it leaks brown fizz.

\- OK, OK, says Tim, - get offa me.

Tears from laughing too hard have coursed down the side of Tim's face and are dribbling into his ears. But Brandon’s suddenly got this strange expression on his face, and for a moment Tim thinks he’s mad for real.

\- You can’t really be mad, B, says Tim. - It’s just a fuckin’ game.

\- No, says Brandon, his face slack, his eyes unblinking, fixed on Tim’s. - No.

Brandon lowers himself slowly, as though he’s doing a pushup, till his face is right in front of Tim’s, and then he turns a little, as though he’s looking over Tim’s shoulder, and their lips are touching, Brandon’s breath warm on Tim’s face.  

Just touching, Tim thinks, - you couldn’t call it kissing, it’s touching.

Tim’s closed his eyes, feeling it, and he’s afraid to open them, because if they look at each other they’ll have to stop.

_They’re so not supposed to be doing this._

But they are, and when Brandon lowers himself down, relaxing his weight onto Tim, he pushes up a little on his elbows so he can smooth Tim’s hair back, one thumb on Tim’s cheekbone next to his eye. This time it’s quite a bit more than touching when their mouths meet, and Tim feels his own mouth opening as Brandon’s tongue pushes into him, taking him, warm and wet.

It feels so good that Tim can’t believe they’re just now doing this - whatever it is - he can't believe they never _thought_ of this before.

Then his own tongue meets Brandon’s and they’re inside each other's mouths, tasting, and Tim can't stay still, he's going crazy. Brandon’s grinding his crotch hard against his leg, right near the stiffie that’s already swelling hard in Tim’s boxers.

Tim’s trapped here, with Brandon’s weight pressing him breathless.  But somehow it seems strangely right, Tim thinks dimly, his own hips thrusting against Brandon’s as he works one hand loose so that he can slip it under the back of Brandon’s jeans and down the crack of his ass.

Tim’s hand grabbing his ass cheek makes Brandon start and groan into Tim’s mouth and thrash sideways, and that's so hot that all Tim can think about is doing it again. So he does, and he keeps doing it till Brandon’s dick finds the groove of his thigh, against his own hard-on, and their hips start to move sideways and slantwise in rhythm as though this is nothing and everything all mixed together _perfect._

Tim doesn’t know what’s making him hotter - Brandon’s tongue in his mouth, licking into him like a language, or the sweet weight of all of him and those hips moving against him, but when Tim comes, hot and hard and messy in his shorts, he blanks out for a minute, his eyes still clamped shut because he doesn’t want to lose it.

It takes some resolve to open his eyes.

Brandon’s got those big hazel eyes, kinda close-set, with dark straight eyelashes.  But he doesn't look at Tim;  he eases himself into the crease between the seat cushions and the couch back and focuses his eyes on the console.

\- The Ravens got Green Bay beat on defense, Brandon says in that voice that still has a tinge of his childhood rasp, - but they got some good guys on offense too, Heap and McGahee and maybe Clayton.

Tim looks up at him. His arms finally liberated, he reaches down to palm Brandon’s dick; it’s still hard and heavy as a stick through his jeans, and Tim loves the way Brandon gulps a little when he starts to stroke it, his eyes closing and his mouth slackening. By the time Brandon comes, gasping and thrashing, Tim’s already half-hard again.

Then Brandon sighs like he's really tired and really happy, and he leans over to kiss Tim again, soft this time, like a question.  When their eyes finally meet Tim can’t believe he hasn’t noticed it before, but those eyes are the same as his eyes, just in a Brandon sort of way.

And suddenly it makes sense, Tim thinks, like when your dad lets go of the bike seat and you realize you never really needed him at all.  

Nobody needs directions to find their way home, he reflects, burying his face in Brandon's warm boy-smelling neck, as long as they know it's still there.  

 

 

 


End file.
